Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction

by Jayne Fresina

  Molly decided she was too tired to argue further. “Whatever you say, your lordship,” she muttered wearily. “You are always in the right.”

  “Hmmph. Don’t hurt yourself by admitting it.” He turned in a circle and then paused to give her another, louder, “Hmmph,” probably meant to curl her toes in her slippers. “Why did you call off that wedding, Mouse? I knew it was a foolish idea in any case, and I assumed you merely came to your senses finally. But did my sister have anything to do with it?”

  The unexpected turn of conversation surprised her, shook her out of her drowsiness. “Not at all, your lordship. Indeed, she wanted me to stay and marry Rafe. She was most angry with my decision.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I think I have known Lady Mercy long enough to read her moods, your lordship, and know when I have displeased her. As I always knew when I’d displeased you.” Both the earl and his sister made no effort to conceal their hot tempers when roused. She should thank him for the flowers he sent, she thought, following his gaze to the vase that brightened one corner of her room. But she was supposed to believe they came from the Baroness Schofield. Admitting she knew otherwise might lead to even further awkwardness. Better it went unsaid.

  He fidgeted with his hat brim. “Did my sister”—he struggled, his voice full of tension—“converse with Rafe Hartley?”

  Molly kept her voice low, sensing every ear in that house was listening. Even Mrs. Slater’s baby had ceased its wailing. “I asked her to speak to him for me, to explain why I couldn’t proceed. Lady Mercy has always been braver than I.”

  Carver’s lips twitched in the slight spasm of a thwarted smile. “I wouldn’t say that. She’s just louder. True courage does not need to be bolstered with noise and bluster. But you know that, Miss Robbins.”

  It felt as if he’d reached over, moved a curl of hair from her forehead, and stroked her cheek again.

  “If my sister has embarked upon an ill-advised affair in the country with Rafe Hartley, what would you say to it, Miss Robbins?”

  It took her a moment to recover her voice. “If she and Rafe…?” Such a strange idea! And yet, she supposed it was possible. Vastly different, totally unsuited people sometimes fell in love. Or one of them did. Stupidly. Knowing reciprocation was impossible.

  Molly quickly shook off those thoughts about her own predicament and tried to concentrate on what he’d suggested about his sister.

  She wanted Rafe to be happy, whatever he did with his life. The same for Lady Mercy. Truly, what right did she have to judge where others found love and happiness? She thought of Mrs. Bathurst across the landing, surrounded by her treasure trove of keepsakes, all she had left of past loves. Opportunity came and went in life. Before one knew it, old age descended. She supposed joy should be seized wherever possible.

  Having thought for a moment, she said softly and earnestly, “I would say good luck to them, your lordship. Life is short and pleasure hard come by.”

  She had an image, suddenly, of her mother pulling her up out of the long meadow grass by one hand. “For pity’s sake, dozy child. Clouds are white, and that’s all there is to it.” Poor woman, not being able to see the many colors around her, wearing blinkers like the plow horses, and bending under her yoke. Molly was sorry—bitterly sorry—for her mother now. If only she had been able to see and understand how much more there was to life. How much more color. All those different shades that made life interesting, challenging, and ever changing.

  “Then you are not in love with him?” the earl demanded. “With Rafe Hartley?”

  She swallowed. “No. Not in that way, but I hope always to be his friend.”

  He was looking at Frederick’s two empty glasses on the window ledge. There was a little wine still left in one of them. “Are you content here, Mouse?” he asked, sounding strangely forlorn suddenly.

  “Of course. This is my dream, and I am fortunate I have the chance to live it.”

  He swept the small room with another doubtful frown.

  “I know it might not seem much to you,” she added. “But to me it’s a palace. Truthfully, I am happy here, and the people are very kind.”

  “Good.” He cleared his throat. “Good.”

  Molly waited, hands behind her back, head on one side. “Was there anything else, your lordship?” Perhaps he thought there was more to look at, other than that one room and the dark cupboard beyond, which masqueraded as her bedchamber.

  “No…no, just passing, and the thought occurred.” He stole another glance at those wine glasses by the window and then studied a sketch she’d been working on earlier, turning it toward him with one hand, his fingers splayed like a giant spider.

  “I hope you like it, your lordship.”

  His brows rose. “Me?”

  “It is for the Baroness Schofield.”

  She saw his jaw tense. “I see,” he muttered. “Very nice.”

  “You approve?” Molly hoped he would realize it was her way of making an apology for the things she’d said about his morals and his mistresses. All things that were not her business. No one in this world could afford to throw stones, whatever their houses were made of, and she knew that now, having felt the intensity of temptation in his presence. Having let herself dream of him at night in her narrow, hard bed, keeping his borrowed silk handkerchief under her pillow. It smelled of him. And of cake. Two of her favorite scents.

  Again he fixed her in a thoughtful stare that made her pulse falter. Despite her stout bones, she felt in considerable danger of melting whenever he looked at her that way. “I approve,” he said.

  “I am glad of it, your lordship.”

  He looked again at the design she was sketching before he came in. “I wonder where you come by your ideas, Miss Robbins.” His voice was halting, uncertain. Was it possible that he felt the awkwardness of this late, impromptu visit as much as she, the victim, did? She’d never seen him unsure before. “I know little about fashion, but even I can see you are talented,” he added.

  This praise pleased her more than any other. “I never know from where the ideas will come or when. Inspiration can strike at the oddest times.” Here again, on this subject, she felt solid ground under her feet, and she was bolder. “I like to observe people, places, architecture…nature. There is beauty to be found in almost anything.”

  He ran a fingertip along her line of charcoal on the paper and smudged it. “I see. That is why you stare at me with those searching, all-knowing brown eyes. You study me too, eh? Do I inspire you?”

  “Sometimes. I suppose you do. Your sister, too, has been an influence upon me. She is a daring clotheshorse, never afraid to try something new.”

  His eyes simmered. “You changed the subject deliberately to my sister.”

  “No, I—”

  “You said you find beauty in everything, Miss Robbins. Does that include me?”

  On her windowsill, the candle flame fluttered, just like her pulse. His uncertainty before had turned now to silky surety, the flirtatious path he knew so well.

  “Yes,” she said, realizing there was no point in denial. It was probably written all over her plain and silly face. “You do possess a certain wild beauty, your lordship. As you are, no doubt, aware.”

  “Wild?” He winced. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

  “Me neither,” she confessed with a sigh.

  He considered this for a moment, foot tapping against her worn scrap of carpet. “Will you not ask me if I find you beautiful, Miss Robbins?”

  A half laugh, half gasp bubbled out of her. “I know what I am.”

  “I don’t think you do.”

  She looked down at her feet.

  He had promised not to flirt with her. He’d signed that contract. But she might have known a promise meant nothing to Carver Danforthe. She gambled on a rake, and she was losing.

  Molly wiped a hand across her brow, a weary gesture he must have noted.

  “I will say good evening t
hen, Miss Robbins. I’ve kept you too long.” He bowed smartly and strode out. How polite he was tonight, she thought, allowing herself a little smile. They could be civil now, it seemed. Even the wild beast made an effort.

  She closed the door behind him and then, freshly inspired by his strange visit, she picked up the charcoal and began another sketch.

  But scarcely a minute had passed, and he was back again, banging on her door. When she opened it, he stood there, his brow creased in confusion.

  “Thank you for the flowers,” she blurted before he could even speak. It had been burning there on her tongue, her heart wracked with guilt for not acknowledging the unexpected thoughtfulness of his gift.

  He seemed to be studying the charcoal she held in her fingers. Slowly his dark gaze lifted to her face. “Do you have my handkerchief? The one I lent you when I stole cake for you, madam?”

  “No,” she answered so swiftly it took her breath away. “I lost it.” He wasn’t getting it back she decided in the blink of an eye. Besides, he had many handkerchiefs. Why would he need one back? It was all she had of him.

  “I see. How careless of you.”

  “If I find it, I’ll return it, your lordship.” Oh, such a filthy liar she had become.

  He half turned away and then back again. “By the by, you made a mistake on that contract, Mouse.”

  She squinted. “I don’t think I—”

  “Tomfoolery. You should have checked the spelling.”

  “Oh?”

  Towering over her in the doorway, he had to bend his head or else hit his brow on the crooked lintel. “Since it is spelled incorrectly, that makes the clause null and void.”

  “I’m quite certain a word misspelled is not enough to—”

  “You may confer with a man of the law, of course, if you don’t believe me.” He glared down at her, the challenge clear in his fierce expression. “Ask Hobbs.”

  Naturally. Ask his faithful minion to confirm. Why not? “You came back just to tell me this?”

  “I did.”

  “It seems a dreadful waste of your time, when you must have more important matters to tend.” Her heart was overexcited, racing too fast.

  “How I waste my time is up to me, Miss Robbins.”

  “I suppose so. You must be very good at it by now.”

  His eyes widened. “And there was nothing more pressing at this moment than correcting you.” A warm, teasing light simmered in his lightened gaze. “And your addlepated contract.”

  “An addlepated contract you signed.”

  “Under duress.”

  Slightly breathless, she laughed. “Duress?”

  “It was early. I was unprepared.” He propped his shoulder against her doorframe. “As you knew I would be.”

  She felt easy in his presence suddenly. It should have been odd and uncomfortable to have him there, leaning in her doorway, but she was no longer his servant, was she? She was Miss Margaret Robbins, her own woman. Lady Anne, who had never known the old Molly, called her “bold.” She had her own life now and could do as she pleased. So she pondered the hard set of his jaw and said, “You didn’t shave today. Your lordship.”

  “Well observed, Mouse.”

  “Lady Mercy would be appalled.”

  “Lady Mercy is not here.”

  Alas. None of this would be happening if she was. Molly would not be commenting on the state of his chin scruff, and Carver would not be visiting her lodgings in the dark of night if his sister was present to prevent it.

  “Well, I just wanted to point out your spelling error, Mouse. While it was in the forefront of my mind.”

  “Sakes, yes. We know how briefly thoughts remain there.”

  He scratched his cheek, and she knew the little hairs must be itching. She’d bet five pounds it was all shaved smooth again by morning. He made no move to leave.

  “Do not burden your mind further with the idea, your lordship. I’m sure you have many other thoughts waiting for their turn.”

  “You infer I can have only one at a time?”

  Molly fought hard to prevent her lips curving. “You are a man, your lordship.”

  He shook his head. “I see your new success has gone to your head, Robbins. Pride comes before a fall.” Now he made a small movement that suggested he was ready to depart again.

  “Speaking of falls, did Larkin get the grass stains out of your breeches?” she asked hurriedly.

  Carver relaxed against the doorframe once more. “He did.”

  “Good.”

  “Your concern for my breeches is misplaced.” His eyes lightened even further, distinctly mischievous. “The knees beneath them were more severely wounded.”

  She looked down at the items in question. “One should take greater care when one goes out riding, especially in advanced years.”

  “And young maids,” he replied swiftly, “should take better care with their spelling.”

  Pushing away from the doorframe, he took the charcoal from between her fingers, turned her hand over, and began to write on her palm.

  “T…O…M…F…O…O…”

  She couldn’t breathe suddenly. His gloved hand holding hers was firm, steady. She prayed to all the saints that he would not feel her tremble, but surely he must. The Earl of Everscham was holding her hand. Holding her hand. The charcoal tickled across her palm, the lines already smudged by unladylike perspiration.

  “L…E…”

  Molly knew she ought to pull her hand away and stop him at once, but if she didn’t let him keep her hand, where else might he write his letters? She feared to imagine.

  “R…Y. There. Now you know how to spell it, Mouse.”

  She glanced down at the word with which he’d marked her skin in giant letters. Unable to get them all on her small palm in one line, he’d made three-and-a-half lines, some of the letters riding up her wrist. With his free hand, he turned her chin up to face him.

  “And now, just so we are clear about the definition too…”

  It seemed to take forever for his lips to reach her. His height, of course, necessitated a low stoop. Molly had plenty of time to avoid his mouth, more than enough time to know his intention. But she tipped her head back, and her lips met his.

  She closed her eyes. His fingertips stroked along her jaw and down the side of her neck, where he would feel her hectic pulse fluttering. His firm lips took that kiss from her ruthlessly, as if he expected a fight but meant to have what he wanted regardless. Stubble pricked her cheek, chafed slightly. His tongue delved into her mouth, tasting her slowly and yet not tentatively, just exploring at his own pace, relishing what he found. His hand around her fingers tightened until she almost yelped. Would have too, if his kiss had not taken complete possession of her capacities just then.

  Never had she been kissed like this, so she had nothing with which to compare it, but she needed nothing. This was the best and yet the worst thing that had ever happened to her. It was fear and thrill, pleasure and chastisement, all rolled into one. It was everything she’d never hoped to feel, and yet everything for which she’d ever yearned.

  At last she was released. Her lips throbbed and felt swollen. Molly raised her eyelids, but daren’t look at his face.

  “Margaret.” He cleared the huskiness from his throat with a sharp cough. “Margaret, perhaps you will do me the honor of reading this.” He took a folded paper from inside his coat. “This is my copy of your contract, with a slight amendment. If you feel so inclined…sign it.” He passed it to her. “Remember, as you just said to me, life is short and pleasure hard to come by. I leave our future pleasure in your hands, Margaret.” One bow, and he was gone again.

  In a daze this time, she closed her door and leaned against it.

  Tomfoolery. The word he’d written upon her palm stared up at her in accusation.

  She’d just been branded by the Earl of Everscham.

  Molly didn’t need to read the paper in her hand. She knew what he wanted from her, and it wasn’
t his silk handkerchief.

  Eleven

  The following morning, Mrs. Lotterby brought a jug of hot chocolate with two cups on a tray to Molly’s room, claiming to have made too much and looking for a partner to share.

  “My Herbert hasn’t the taste for it, which is just as well, for it makes him giddy one moment and sleepy the next. I thought perhaps my favorite tenant might like a cup.” She beamed.

  “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Lotterby,” Molly replied, clearing a place on her table, knowing exactly why the landlady was there. May as well get the questions over with. “I suppose you are curious about my visitor last night.”

  He had called her Margaret.

  “Who? Oh, dearie me, no. I’m sure it is no business of mine.” But the lady quickly settled herself into the most comfortable chair and proceeded to pour the hot chocolate. “I do not pry into the private affairs of my tenants.”

  It was a good thing, thought Molly, that there was no lightning strike at that moment. One of them had just told a giant fib, and the other was about to do so.

  She accepted the cup from Mrs. Lotterby and warmed her hands around it, for last night had been chilly and damp, with this morning’s sun yet to reach her southerly facing window. “The Earl of Everscham is my former employer, Mrs. Lotterby. I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea. He made me a small business loan. Our connection is purely professional.”

  “Well, I’m sure I never thought otherwise, Miss Robbins. I said to my Herbert, I won’t hear a bad word about that hardworking young lady upstairs, and he agreed. We all have our burdens to bear and our secrets, to be sure, but I would never hold them against you, whatever anyone suggests. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

  “Who would suggest anything about me?”

  “One hears rumors, my dear.” Mrs. Lotterby squirmed in her chair as if she had an itch it would be indelicate to scratch publicly. “The Earl of Everscham has a certain reputation. An innocent young lady like yourself may not be aware of it.” She made a clicking noise with her tongue and twitched her head, reminding Molly of a large hen looking for a place to lay an egg. “Not that I listen to anything he…not a word of it…not to pay it credence”—she glanced meaningfully at the floor—“but one can’t help what enters one’s ear holes.”